


(With Just One) Look

by agenthill



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [32]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, consensual voyeurism, roleplay elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 07:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12272034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: "I don't actually know if the door is locked,"Fareeha had told her,"So if you somehow were to come home right now, you could walk through the door and find me like this, catch me in the act."A simple statement, but the words echo through Angela's mind in the coming weeks, never quite leaving her thoughtsOr,Angela and Fareeha find a compromise, and indulge a kink in the process.





	(With Just One) Look

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tashatops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tashatops/gifts), [gloriousdownfall](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=gloriousdownfall).



> finally... kind of... out of my pharmercy smut slump

As in many relationships, compromise is a central theme in Fareeha and Angela's partnership. Whether they are discussing music taste, what constitutes a "comfortable" room temperature, or when to eat dinner, the two of them never quite seem to line up. Yet, despite this, or perhaps because of it, their relationship is quite functional—they do not run the risk of bleeding so much into one another that they lose all sense of identity, nor are they _too_ different, or stubborn, to reach an agreement. At the end of the day, they are able to meet in the middle, to find a new baseline, to adjust and accommodate for one another, expanding their experiences and learning more about themselves, and their values, in the process.

There are some things, however, that they will not— _cannot_ —meet halfway on. This, the both of them can accept; it is not unreasonable to have hard lines, for there to be some parts of oneself that one refuses to reconsider, to reevaluate, to revise. Far be it from either of them to demand a fundamental change from the other, to be expected to reshape themself for the pleasure of the other.

So it is without coercion—and a shock to both of them—that Angela abruptly finds herself willing to compromise on something Fareeha had mentioned to her in passing months before.

In truth, it is not such an important issue; Fareeha enjoys exhibitionism, and Angela is both too shy and too private to be willing to be seen while intimate.

(In fact, outside of Overwatch, and other close friends, Angela is not out to anyone—not because she is ashamed, or embarrassed, but because she does not consider her sexuality or trans status to be the sort of thing which she wants discussed by the general public. Let Lena give hope to young gay people; Angela would rather people discussed her scientific accomplishments, or did not discuss her at all. So, of course, exhibitionism would seem to be entirely off of the table for her.)

But, half a year later, Fareeha makes a comment in passing and Angela suddenly realizes there _is_ an avenue for compromise, after all. It was not Fareeha's intention to persuade her, Angela is certain, is just a fantasy mentioned whilst dirty talking, but once the words are said, she cannot forget them.

 _"I don't actually know if the door is locked,"_ Fareeha had told her, _"So if you somehow were to come home right now, you could walk through the door and find me like this, catch me in the act."_

A simple statement, but the words echo through Angela's mind in the coming weeks, never quite leaving her thoughts. They are there, in the quiet hours before dawn, when Fareeha is asleep beside her, and she wakes aroused after a dream she cannot remember. They are there when she comes back to their quarters late after losing herself in her work. They are there, three months later, when she and Fareeha are eating dinner, and she suddenly finds herself blurting out a suggestion.

Perhaps she is not willing to indulge in Fareeha's desire to be _seen_ , is not aroused by the idea of showing off, or even comfortable with others seeing her vulnerable in such a way, perhaps she does not understand the impulse, but she _does_ see a way to accommodate this, does think she has found a way for _both_ of them to enjoy this.

"I wouldn't mind," she says, without any sort of lead in, because she does not know _how_ to broach this subject, is still new enough to wanting this that she is not quite sure what words she might use to minimize her embarrassment, "Watching you."

"Pardon?" Fareeha asks her, sounding not shocked, but confused—certainly, Angela did not do enough to establish the topic of conversation.

"You mentioned, when we called—I was at Watchpoint: Grand Mesa at the time—and you said you had left the door unlocked, and that if I was there, if I wanted to, I could walk in and find you. If that's—if you still want someone to see you, to catch you, as you put it, _I wouldn't mind_."

(In fact, Angela thinks she might enjoy it, very much so, but saying that seems a step too far, just yet. After all, she has never thought of herself as the type to want to watch others, to find witnessing such vulnerable moments pleasurable—but this is different, is something Fareeha would enjoy, too, and it is not as if Fareeha would not _know_ she was watching, not as if Fareeha was not a willing participant, also.)

"Well," Fareeha says, shifts forward in her seat as her expression changes, grows more ponderous, "I imagine there will be a few things to work out, logistically—we have to make sure it's _you_ who walks in on me, after all—but, yes, I'm interested. I'm assuming you already have a plan?"

Angela did, indeed, have a plan, and so, two weeks later, she finds herself walking back from her lab to their shared quarters with a good deal more anticipation than usual. She does not know for certain what Fareeha will be doing when she enters, but she hopes that tonight will be the night. A part of her is impatient, and wishes she knew already, but this was, after all, her idea.

Her plan is thus: on every night in a given week—this week—she will stay in her lab until later than usual. In so doing, it is guaranteed to be late enough that no one else might try to enter their quarters, and so there is no risk of anyone _else_ stumbling across Fareeha pleasuring herself. Because she wanted the scenario to feel organic (and does not have _that_ much faith in her roleplaying ability), she asked that Fareeha not tell her _which_ night she chose to set this plan into motion, which is why, even now, Angela is not sure what it is she will find on the other side of her door.

(At the time, it seemed like a good idea, but Angela is realizing, slowly, that while heightened anticipation may make things more pleasurable in the end, she is not so patient as she thought. It is Thursday already, and while she knows that if not tonight, things will happen tomorrow, she has been wanting, and _waiting,_ and deciding not to touch herself in the interim before this seemed like a good idea but now, two and a half weeks later, she is decidedly antsy. Surely, she thought, Fareeha would be less patient than she, but unless she has simply missed Fareeha, has returned a bit _too_ late from her lab in the nights previous, then she may have been outlasted yet. Unfortunate, as Angela hates losing, but at least to surrender to Fareeha is often as sweet as winning.)

Her heels click on the floor, and the latch of their first door closes with much the same sound. As she sets down her shoes, and her keys, and her coat (a thunk, a jangle, a quiet rustle of fabric), she most certainly does _not_ strain to hear the sounds coming from their bedroom, does not hurry, does not glance over her shoulder in anticipation.

It is just like any other night, as she moves into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of water, leans against the counter and lets her head fall back against a cabinet as she goes over the events of the day in her mind, one by one.

If she could, she would rush this, would already be checking to see if their bedroom door has been left cracked open for her, but she will not—cannot—deviate from this part of her routine. By the time the glass is drained, she will have banished her worries for the time being, will have pushed them away to be dealt with tomorrow, but not a moment sooner. Five minutes, that is all she needs. Five minutes, and she can check.

Four minutes.

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

One.

When she sets her empty glass down in the sink, it doesn't sound like anything, and she is ready, at last, to see what awaits her.

If her anticipation dulled at all during her reflection, then it has returned now, stronger than ever, and she nearly walks into the corner of their new couch on her way to the bedroom.

(Years of wearing the Valkyrie Suit, with its ability to automatically chart for her the surest course from one place to another, have left her somewhat clumsy when out of it.  While the situation is not so bad that it might be seen as an _impairment_ , it shows itself when she is focused on another matter, and she walks into things more than she might like.)

When she arrives to the door of her bedroom without further incident she finds it left cracked open, and her heart skips a beat—or it would, if such a thing actually happened—because that is the signal. 

From the gap in the doorway she can see Fareeha, laid back on their bed, legs hanging over the edge and feet pushing up from the ground for leverage as she thrusts into her own fingers.  Her legs are spread in such a way that Angela can see _everything_ , and she is propped back on one elbow, where if her eyes were not focused downwards she might see Angela, standing there.  To think that, if only Fareeha looked upwards for a moment, she would be caught watching, it sends a thrill through her.

(Of course, Fareeha knows she is there—and that is half the fun of this, the _pretending_ —but the fear of being caught affects her nonetheless.)

She fumbles a bit, unbuttoning her jeans and unzipping her fly, thinks she really ought to have worn a skirt, knowing this was a possibility—but then, the fact that she is so unprepared makes this feel all the more authentic, all the more as if she only stumbled upon Fareeha like this, as if Fareeha were some stranger, and not her lover, in their bed.

Although she is not wet, not yet, she brings a hand to her clit, starts off rubbing herself; she likes the friction, sometimes, of going a bit too hard too fast, likes the slight discomfort with her pleasure.  In any case, she thinks she ought to go faster, tonight, as Fareeha is already quite wet, enough that the sound of her fingers thrusting inside herself is quite audible, and she does not know for how long this show will last.  That is an advantage to this situation, the not knowing, the suspense.  It keeps her on edge in another sense.

(But there are some things familiarity heightens, more than the scenario itself—the knowledge that even if she cannot ask how long Fareeha has been here, she nevertheless is nearly certain that Fareeha has already come once, can tell from her use of three fingers rather than two—the fact that she _knows_ these things, without being told, that she knows Fareeha so well, is arousing in its own way.)

There is a furrow to Fareeha’s brow, and she is biting her lip (to keep silent, Angela suspects; too much time spent in barracks trained Fareeha to touch herself quietly, even if during sex she is the louder of the two of them).  Her prosthetic hand is teasing a nipple, and Angela brings her own free hand up under her turtleneck and bra to mirror the action, tries to move her hand in time, as if it were Fareeha touching her.

For a minute or two, it works, her following Fareeha’s pace, but it is obvious already that Fareeha is quite aroused, apparent from the speed at which her chest rises and falls, from the way she gasps, from all the little tells Angela has long since memorized, even if she is moving slowly and Angela—well, Angela needs a bit more.  

Wearing jeans, it is hard to get the angle _just so_ , but the fact that she is still mostly dressed adds to the illusion, to the ability to pretend as if this really were something happening spontaneously, and she would be lying if she said she did not enjoy the added challenge of this.  She can only just fit her first two fingers into her pants comfortably and still have room to maneuver, and certainly cannot reach inside of herself as Fareeha is, but touching her clit is often enough for her without penetration, and certainly it will be today, with the sight before her.  If only she were to focus a bit more on the sensation, she might be close already.

But how can she focus on herself, with the show Fareeha is putting on?

Even if Angela’s fantasy relies upon her being unseen, clearly Fareeha is quite enjoying the opposite, the knowledge that Angela is watching, and is taking great care to show off.  She has gotten slightly louder now—undoubtedly for Angela’s benefit—no longer biting her lip but murmuring to herself with each jerk of her hips.  Not all of it is distinct enough for Angela to hear, cut off as it is by gasps, but what little Angela can hear is lovely, _Angela_ and _need you_ and _beautiful, beautiful_.  

(Angela wonders if this is how Fareeha touches herself when they are apart, wonders if that is where the emotion in her voice comes from, that separation, that longing.  Certainly she does something similar, caught herself gasping Fareeha’s name during long, lonely nights away on missions even before they were truly a couple.)

 _Yes_ , Fareeha hisses, just a tiny bit sharper, and Angela wants to reach out, to touch her, but it would break the illusion to do so, would end this little game.  So she says nothing, does not move, only rubs herself in harder, tighter circles, and leans on the wall for support.

Fareeha is beautiful like this—she is _always_ beautiful, but especially now, shirt entirely unbuttoned to allow her hands better access to her skin, lacy underwear bunched around one ankle, breasts moving as her chest rises and falls.  How much of this, Angela wonders, is happenstance, and how much is for show?  Did she consider taking her shirt all the way off and leave it for effect, or was she just _so eager_ after two weeks spent waiting, to touch herself, that she could not even take the time to remove it all the way?

Angela would like to imagine it is the latter, that Fareeha’s attempt to tease Angela has had her just as on edge, that she has spent all day wanting this, just _waiting_ for Angela to come home so that she could begin.  The thought has Angela a bit weak at the knees, and she is glad that she already braced herself against the wall.

From the way Fareeha has sped up, and the arch to her thighs, Angela can tell that Fareeha is close, now, is likely only _just_ holding back for Angela’s sake.  Angela, too, is getting closer, turtleneck sticking to her skin and heart starting to race, her hips rocking into her fingers.  If she could only get a _slightly_ better angle, it might be enough to send her over the edge.

As it is, she is hovering close to the edge, might beg if Fareeha were the one touching her, would ask for something, _anything_ , just a little more pressure, more speed, more sensation somehow—but begging would do nothing for her now.  Instead, she stays silent, hidden, or as close as she can be, only the slightest whine slipping out as she watches Fareeha’s back arch and toes curl.

Perhaps Fareeha hears the whine—or perhaps her timing is just excellent—because it is a scant moment later that she comes, head falling back and hips lifting off the bed, and Angela is really biting her lip to stay silent then, is _so close_ , she just needs a tiny, tiny bit more.

For a moment she considers ending the charade, just entering the bedroom and letting Fareeha finish her, but then Fareeha seems to collect herself, brings her sticky fingers up to her mouth and licks them clean, catching Angela’s eye as she does so, and _oh_ that is enough.

Angela is not sure what about the eye contact it is that tips her over, the intimacy of it or the feeling of being caught, that she has been seen doing something she should not be.  There is a rush of embarrassment and something akin to shame and somehow, that makes it better, and Angela struggles to stay upright as she comes, vision whiting out for a moment.

And then, it is over, and she is walking towards their bed on still shaky legs.  She does not bother to undress at all before crawling into Fareeha’s arms, pressing a kiss to her lover’s sweaty temple, “Enjoyed yourself, Scharï?” she asks, although she already knows the answer.

Fareeha hums in reply, a small, contented sound, as if she still has yet to regain her ability to speak.

“Just couldn’t wait, could you?” Angela adds, toying with the shirt still half hanging off of her body.  

Another nod is the only response.

“Well, I don’t blame you for being tired—by the looks of things you’d already come once before I showed up, hmm?”

“I didn’t,” is Fareeha’s first real response.

 _Oh._ She had thought, with how wet Fareeha looked, that she must have come once at least before Angela got home, but if that is not the case then... “You liked being watched that much?”  And no wonder Fareeha is so tired—who knows for how long she waited for Angela, and so close to coming, too.

“Only by you,” Fareeha replies, voice thick with emotion or tiredness or something else, “Only by you.”

“I love you,” says Angela then, more in response to the sentiment behind Fareeha’s words than the words themselves.  And, then, before the steady beat of Fareeha’s heart can lull her to sleep, “We should do this again.”

“Yes,” Fareeha agrees, and adds in a mock serious tone, “But sleep first.”

Comfortable as she is curled up in Fareeha’s arms, Angela hardly hears the words before drifting off.  Her last thought as she falls asleep, is this: a wish that it was always so easy to cross the distance between them, that Fareeha was only ever a room away.

**Author's Note:**

> props to joana and vicky for watching me stream writing this lmao.
> 
> title is from 1d as always
> 
> ffn author voice: r&r (jk but comments are appreciated)


End file.
